


where do your flowers lay?

by nutellamuffin



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Family Feels, and honestly i could rant about caspian for hours but i'll spare you that, and i feel like him not killing miraz was so beautiful, and yeah we have spanish terms because they didn't touch on that enough, i love him so much ok, ignoring canon (again), this is mostly just one big hc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25742638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutellamuffin/pseuds/nutellamuffin
Summary: in which caspian is in denial and insists everything was fine before his uncle, and the one time it wasn’t.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	where do your flowers lay?

it hits him when he least expects it that no one can have a perfect father. caspian reels back from his hand on his cheek, bringing his own up to touch the stinging skin with wide eyes. his father only stares, as if he is just now realizing his own action. immediately, caspian is met with a choice of whether to run, or yell, or simply stare, and he does not have enough time to choose before his father speaks.

“caspian.  _ mi hijo. _ i should not have done that. i am sorry,” he adds, and bends his legs the slightest bit to accommodate the height of the six year old.

caspian says nothing, does nothing but gape at the man who he has idolized for all his life; the man who told him stories of the stars but nothing more, the man who would chase away all the imaginary demons from his child’s mind when the night seemed too dark, the man who would praise him for the smallest things just to make him feel accomplished.

the man who had just hit him, because caspian had overstayed his welcome too long in his father’s presence on a stressful day. because caspian did not want to chase butterflies, he wanted to chase his father.

now, he only stands, and his dark eyes brim with tears as he looks to the stone floors and tries to push them away, his small hand falling from where it was cupping the bright red skin of his cheek.

_ “caspian,” _ his father says again, and caspian does not listen. he turns on his heels and runs, all but stumbling out of the room, shaking his head furiously as he tries to will his tears away.

his father can tell he is still upset at dinner, from the six year old anger that can only translate into pouting, and the clash of his silver cutlery on his plate is louder than usual. caspian does not look up from it, he stares down at his food and does not swing his legs from underneath the table; he fumes, and rethinks everything his father had done for him as much as a six year old could do so. his mother asks caspian about his day, and he says nothing, crossing his arms across his stomach and not taking another bite.

his father takes him aside after, his hand firm on caspian’s shoulder, and for the first time in his life, the prince wants to shove it away. he sighs; the old, weary sigh that caspian hears when he is lingering outside of his father’s meetings, the one that has never been in his direction, not once.

he wants to shove it away but he does not, he stands with six year old determination and crosses his six year old arms over his chest, and he would ask for an apology if only he trusted his six year old voice.

then his father says something that caspian had not expected. and perhaps he was scrambling for words, and perhaps he was trying to find a method to this madness, but what he says is something that caspian will never forget.

“turn that pain into power.”

the boy blinks up at him for the first time in hours and his furrowed brows relax into a more confused expression. and his father, completely serious, points to caspian’s chest, where he unfolds his arms and lets him do so.

“your hurt only has as much control over you as you let it. you may turn it into something greater.”

caspian only blinks as his father nods once, and gives him a strange sort of smile that seems strained. he does not question why.

caspian shies away from his nurse in the corner of his room, pressing his back to the cold stone and his palms into his eyes, and this time he does not will away the fiery tears filling his eyes. the nurse only stands and watches the eight year old cower, tries to draw him out from the small ball he’s tucked himself in, and caspian does not move. he cannot.

perhaps it is poetic justice that she begins to be the maker of light in his life after delivering the darkest news. perhaps she is trying to make up for it, in the years that come, when she strokes his hair and tells him of the age before his own. 

but today, no bedtime story can make up for this. no fairytale can console the prince, who stays in the corner for hours, and waits for his parents to come in and apologize for the misunderstanding. he waits for his mother to squeeze him tight, he waits for his father to lift him up above his head. he waits for his mother to sing him to sleep, he waits for his father to tuck him into bed. 

they do not.

who knows how many days later and he is standing in front of his uncle, his hands behind his back. he wonders idly why he looks so out of place on the throne, but his eight year old mind does not question it, and instead he looks to the floor.

his uncle tells him it will be alright now, and he sounds so sure of himself but caspian does not know why. he has cried out all his tears and all that is left is injustice boiling in his veins, for almost everyone else his age still has their parents to love them and he does not, he is standing in a lifeless throne room full of people and staring into the eyes of a man he knows so well and yet does not know at all.

_ turn that pain into power. _

caspian still does not understand the meaning. and so he only nods, looks to his feet, and mumbles, “yes, tío.”

caspian reaches for his sword on the ground and the guard steps on his wrist. he is full of life and yet has none, his limbs are long and gangly as to tell him to run into the hills and fool around in the weeds as fourteen year olds do. but he does not. he looks up into the sneering eyes of the guard he is to train with and considers his next move.

there are a multitude of options here, and perhaps that is how it is meant to be; all of which end with someone’s blood spilt, and the probability points to the guard’s. he hears his uncle’s voice in his head,  _ they are only guards, caspian, if they are harmed in your path to success it does not matter, _ and perhaps he would believe him if he did not know this man’s name was marko.

no one seems to understand the importance of a name, but caspian does. because a name means there is a man with a family under that helmet, a name ties a soul to a soldier, a name means that caspian cannot treat him as expendable as he is told.

his wrist throbs, and marko scoffs, seeing as it appears that caspian has no other moves. he shifts his foot, to press harder against the sun kissed skin pulled tight against bone, and caspian lets out a yelp.

_ turn that pain into power. _

he does not. he says, “yield,” and the guard does so, stepping away and leaving the prince to lie on his back in the courtyard, folding his hands on his stomach and looking to the sky instead of his sword beside him.

caspian is standing in front of his bleeding uncle on his knees, and there are tears stinging his eyes when he is certain there shouldn’t be. and he is stuck between a rock and a hard place because his uncle is looking at him like he knows his choice, and caspian does not know whether the right one is to make the one he wants or the one that the prince feels is calling to him.

and his uncle grits out, from war-torn teeth, “perhaps i was wrong. maybe you do have the makings of a telmarine king after all.”

his father’s words echo in his head once more.  _ turn that pain into power. _

caspian could kill him, he could slit his throat for all the things he had done to him, to his parents. he could make him pay for endless nights in turmoil, the nights he spent balled up in the cold stone corner of his room. for the nights that he sat and missed his nurse’s voice, for the pain he put that poor woman through. for cornelius’ stress of sending the boy who was close to a son to him away in the night, for peter’s blood on the ground, for the slain and hidden narnians who still do not feel safe on their own land.

but he does not. he puts down his sword, and he says, “not one like you.”

and begins his reign with mercy.


End file.
